The Death Artist
by Lauren Eliza
Summary: She's always had her art, and she's always inspired his own. Sometimes, that art isn't exactly what the world wants it to be. LP, dark subject matter, one-shot.
1. Chapter 1

The Death Artist

The man sat alone in the coffee shop. He was halfway through his third cup of hot, sugary salvation, but he saw no pearly gates opening for him. With a sigh that was almost a groan, he unfolded the piece of paper clenched in his hands. Though it had been written only earlier that day, it was already worn smooth from constant interaction with his hands. The black lettering stood out sharply, each curve and sweep of each letter like a bullet to his heart. She was in every inch of this small square of paper, and it was all he had left of her.

******

That morning had seemed no different from any other they had shared in three years of marriage. He got out of bed at seven o'clock on the dot, always beginning his highly regimented day at the same time. After a quick shower and shave, he stopped to greet her as he passed her studio on his way downstairs. She was always up with the sun, to catch the best light as it filtered through the glass and onto her canvas. Today, the light seemed particularly strong, and she seemed particularly frantic to capture it. With a small smile at her antics, he quietly left the room.

Fifteen minutes later she came downstairs, surprisingly exuberant considering the early hour and her former stress. "It's finished!" she exclaimed. Out of duty and habit, he arose and followed her upstairs to view her latest

creation. He looked longingly at his tidy office across the hall as he stepped into her studio, where the light mixed with the scatter of art supplies to create an impression of brightly coloured chaos. The painting sat in the middle like a king presiding over an unruly court. He walked up to it in order to give it a closer examination. On a field of forest green, brown and gold shapes swirled in a strange pattern. "It's good. I like it," he said. Too excited and proud to notice his distance, she smiled and said, "It is. It really, really is." Planting a light kiss on her forehead, he left the room, picked up his briefcase and left the house.

******

He had found the note sitting on the table as soon as he got home from work. The house was quiet, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. She was usually sleeping at this time of day, tired from her early mornings. Seeing the note on the table hadn't alarmed him at all, so he casually picked it up. As he read it, the blood slowly drained from his face. There was no signature, but neither was it possible to mistake her handwriting, as distinctive as everything else she created. "Life is a zoo in a jungle," the note read. "I don't want to live in this cage anymore." Unable to think, hardly able to breathe, he stumbled blindly out of the house with the note still clenched in his hands.

He found himself in front of the coffee shop some time later. He couldn't remember walking there, but it seemed that he had. He walked in, nodded to the proprietor, and ordered a coffee. Two refills later, he hadn't moved or said anything past please and thank you to the equally quiet proprietor. As he

finished the cup, he was struck by a bitter thought. Three cups of coffee, three years of marriage. Was all his life destined to be played out in threes? Or was his mind grasping at odds, sent into overdrive by the absence of his grounding force, that wonderful, frustrating woman he had spent three years loving? He no longer knew. He only knew that he had to do something, anything, to fulfill the unspoken wish in her note. A wish for him to free himself as well. To the contrary of his deserting wife, he craved the beauty and simplicity of a cage.

******

He arrived at home, hoping somehow that she would be there, and that it had all been a nightmare induced by his long hours at work. No such awakening was to be found, however, as he wandered through the dark hallways. He needed a plan. He lived by plan, by schedule; spontaneity had never been his strong point. But for a plan, he needed inspiration, so he steeled his resolve and entered her studio. It looked as though it had been empty for years. The only things that remained were the curtains, flapping in the wind, and an easel with a fresh canvas set upon it. As he stared at its blank, white surface, an idea began to form in his mind.

He moved through the house, collecting any and every photo of her he could find. Once he had amassed enough to create an entire album, he deposited them gently in the studio. Then he went out to the garden and picked the last of the yellow roses she had loved to grow. Their smell lingered in the

hallway, mocking its silence with the headiness of their perfume. After leaving

them in the studio as well, he entered the bedroom and changed into the suit he had worn at their wedding. "You look so handsome," she had said on that day. As an artist, she always appreciated the beauty around her.

Once dressed, he returned to her studio. He arranged the photos in a semi-circle on the floor, facing inwards to the easel he had set up directly in front of the window. The roses he scattered over the floor in the pattern that had haunted him all day, the pattern of the leaves on her final painting done in this room. With a small smile of satisfaction at his handiwork, he stepped over the photos and into the circle.

The pistol was small, sleek and silver. Exactly the sort of gun an accomplished businessman like himself would own. With a farewell glance at the room around him, he placed it against his temple, and pulled the trigger.

*****

The policeman entered the room not long afterwards, alerted by a phone call from a neighbour who had heard the single shot. The scene in the studio was like something from a horror film, the type where the watcher simply can't look away. The yellow roses on the floor, the photos of a smiling woman and an expensively dressed man lying crumpled in front of an easel upon which rested a canvas splattered with his blood. As he entered the room more fully, the policeman noticed something else. A small, worn piece of paper had been placed on the floor, just inside the doorway. "Life is a zoo in a jungle," the note read. "I don't want to live in this cage anymore."


	2. Author's Note

Author's Note: Hey guys! I completely forgot to edit this story before posting it and add an author's note, so here it is, just slightly delayed. This story wasn't written as a fan-fic, but as a project for a writing class I took two years ago. I was cleaning out files on my computer and found it and realized how well it could work for LP so decided to publish it here anyways. Just thought I would clear that up, and if it isn't up to my usual standards, well, it was two years ago! Hope you enjoy, please leave a review!


End file.
